


The Cat's Meow

by akane42me



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“What is this place?” whispered Napoleon.<br/>“My childhood school,” said Illya.</em></p><p>A story of friendship and betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cat's Meow

**Author's Note:**

> Written in December 2010 for Down the Chimney 7

 

  
  
**The Cat’s Meow**   
  


_“What is this place?” whispered Napoleon.  
“My childhood school,” said Illya._

  


  
  
[   
](http://s1200.photobucket.com/albums/bb333/akane42me/?action=view&current=LeninandCat.jpg)   
  


Vladimir Lenin

  


**Zemlyanoy Gorod, Moscow – 1946**  

“That picture’s ready to fall apart," Illya said, as he came upon Misha sitting cross-legged on top of his bed, examining the little photograph of Lenin holding a cat. “If you keep handling it like that, you won’t have anything left of your father.” 

Misha said, “My father loved this picture. He said it reminded him of the time of unity.” 

“It’s still a time of unity,” Illya responded. “Come on, Misha, cheer up. Your father would be glad to see your good fortune today. Our future is secure.” 

“How glad can one be, lying frozen on some battlefield,” Misha said.

“I meant if he were alive.”

“At least I know where my father is. No, don’t look at me that way. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure my father would be glad for me. I can still see that roll of money he gave Headmaster Volanka. I’ve never seen so much money,” said Illya, making a circle with his thumb and fingers.

“I wish you could have found them when you ran away to Kiev.” Misha said, quietly.

“Don’t remind me of that disaster. I was too young. Next year, when I go to the Nakhimov Naval School, I’ll find a way to try again. But it’s even farther away.”

“I think you’re crazy. But I’m sure you’re going to try.” 

“I wish we could go together,” Illya said. “Why does Volanka have to send you to Maikop?” 

Misha carefully tucked the photo away. “He’s shuffling his cards. He’s trying to improve the odds that one of us will help him win his way back into favor with our Great Leader Stalin.” 

“He’s lucky he’s not with your father,” said Illya.

“Shhhh! Volanka has ears everywhere.” Misha cast his eyes to the other beds in the dormitory. A cautious silence fell between the boys. Then: “My father said when Lenin died, Stalin killed this cat.” 

“Shhhh!”

“Don’t worry, Illyusha.  _Our_  future is secure…”

***

  
It was a classic con. The decoy must be clumsy, so the real thief escapes. 

The biscuit lay ruined on the stone floor, crushed beneath the Headmaster Volanka’s boot.

“To steal is a crime.”  _Crack._

“To steal is a betrayal of your comrades.”  _Crack._

“To steal is a betrayal of the state.”  _Crack._

“Do you confess to the crime of thievery and betrayal?”

Silence.

Headmaster Volanka straightened and pressed a hammed fist into his lower back. The cold and damp tormented him this time of year. Roshdyestvo, Christmas, was two days away. Although, of course, it was just another day, now. At New Year’s, Grandfather Frost would bring each child a pair of stockings and an orange. Not much, but practical. 

The door to the little room made of stone cracked open. “Comrade Headmaster. Your meeting.”

Volanka regarded the boy. So young-looking, for thirteen. Some of his classmates were sprouting shadows on their upper lips. Not this one, whose pale complexion and small size worked to his advantage, allowing him to skulk about, unnoticed by his larger, boisterous peers. But Volanka saw all. 

“I trust you have learned your lesson, Comrade Kuryakin?”

The fair-haired head tilted upward. 

 _Crack._

“Stand at attention when I ask you a question.”

The boy snapped straight. His backside burned with pain, but in spite of his discomfort he gazed steadily at the space one foot in front of Volanka’s chin. 

“Comrade Headmaster, I was following the teachings of Marx: ‘To each according to his need.’ I needed more food,” Illya said. 

Volanka stared at the boy for a minute. The boy stood still under the menacing glare, which caused even the oldest students to wilt. At last, Volanka spoke. “You will remain after meals today and wash the floors.” 

“Yes, Comrade Headmaster.”

Volanka leaned the rod in the corner. He turned away from the boy and mounted the stone steps with as much dignity as his aching back would allow. He smiled a thin smile. This one would need watching. He was deceptively weak-looking, and deviously sneaky. But the boy must learn to control the fire in his icy blue eyes, for it betrayed what lay behind them. If he could learn that, this one could be Volanka’s ticket back to the Kremlin. And if not him, then his bunkmate: that one was even more devious, and a natural liar. He already was well skilled in the art of deception. No need for the rod, with that one. 

But there was no guarantee both boys would fulfill Volanka’s hopes. Better not to put all one’s eggs in one basket. He would send one to the navy in Leningrad and one to the army in Maikop. As long as one of them proved as exceptional as he anticipated, Volanka would be welcomed back with open arms. If the other one was left behind, who cared? 

He turned at the top of the stairs and spoke to the motionless boy. 

“Use the time to reflect upon our leader Stalin’s words: ‘To each according to his work.’” 

“Yes, Comrade Headmaster.” 

Volanka watched the boy for another minute. “You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, Comrade Headmaster.” Illya mounted the stairs and moved past Volanka, taking care not to brush against the Headmaster in the narrow doorway, and disappeared into the dark halls of the school. 

***

  
The bunk beds stood in long rows, two-high. Illya walked down an aisle to where his friend Misha sprawled on his bed, ostensibly reading a schoolbook.

“I trust you have learned your lesson, Comrade Kuryakin.” Misha’s mimicry of Headmaster Volanka could earn a week’s punishment, yet Misha made no effort to lower his voice.

Illya began to sit, but remembering his backside, decided to stand for a while more. “The lesson is - don’t get caught,” he groused. “Next time, you can be the stooge and I get away.” 

Misha tossed his book aside and rolled off the bed. Together, he and Illya pulled a storage trunk from beneath the bunk. Its cover was propped open a crack with a stick, and Misha raised the lid. Inside, the cat did not make a noise. Somehow, it knew silence was necessary for its survival. Illya reached in and scratched the cat behind its ears. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Lenin. I paid a high price for it.” 

Misha chuckled softly. “He’s like you: He’s sneaky. He avoids people. He doesn’t make friends.”

Illya said, “My grandfather used to kick the dog out of his way, and it would come back, licking at his feet every time. A cat won’t put up with that. You have to be good to a cat, or the cat will go away. It chooses its friends carefully, and so do I.” 

“Sometimes the cat goes away anyway,” said Misha.

“I’m not going anywhere, Misha. Not until next year.”

*** 

  
 **New York – October 1, 1964**

The envelope arrived at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in New York City in the morning mail and was routed from Security to Alexander Waverly’s desk, in spite of the fact that it bore Illya Kuryakin’s name on the front. The envelope, standard in size, material, and manufacture, was unremarkable. Unless one cared that it had been delivered to Del Floria’s via U.S. mail, despite the fact that it bore no postage stamp, no delivery address, and no return address. 

Alexander Waverly cared. He summoned Napoleon Solo, filling him in. Within minutes, Security had rounded up both mailman and truck, thus accomplishing what neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night could do, and Intelligence was analyzing the envelope’s contents. 

Mr. Waverly sent for Illya Kuryakin. 

When Illya arrived, Mr. Waverly was at his console speaking on the telephone, and Napoleon was at the conference table, talking intently into his pen communicator. As the access doors swished closed, Napoleon lifted his eyes to Illya and beckoned him inside. Illya nodded to him and crossed the room to sit across from Napoleon, who continued speaking, keeping his eyes fixed on Illya. From what Illya could make out, Napoleon was talking to someone from Security. Illya grew uncomfortable under Napoleon’s scrutiny and threw his partner a scowl. Napoleon capped his pen, and Illya murmured, “What’s going on?” 

The answer came from behind him. “Mr. Kuryakin, this was delivered in the morning mail.”

Illya turned to see Mr. Waverly handing him a white envelope. Taking it, he saw his name, saw it was already slit open. That explains Security, he thought. 

“The U.S. mail,” Waverly was saying, with emphasis on ‘U.S’. 

“There’s no stamp or address,” Illya said. 

Waverly frowned. “We can see that, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Do we know who sent it?” Illya asked.

Waverly’s frown deepened. “Mr. Solo?”

“Security hasn’t come up with anything yet, Sir,” said Napoleon. “The mailman’s polygraph came up clean, so they’re backtracking to the Post Office.” He shook his head. “Who knows how many ways that envelope could have been slipped in with the mail?” 

Illya pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope. Like the envelope, it was unremarkable. Unless one cared that the three words were Cyrillic: ‘Ленин говорит, мяуканье’. Abruptly, Illya stood, a mixture of surprise and disbelief on his face. Lifting the letter, Illya turned to Mr. Waverly. “Lenin govorit, myaukan’e. Lenin says meow.”

Waverly scowled and pulled his pipe from his pocket. “I know what it says.”

“It’s a message,” said Illya. 

Waverly sighed. “Of course, it’s a message.” 

His voice rising, Illya said, “It’s for me.” 

“Aside from stating the obvious, Mr. Kuryakin, is there anything of value you can tell us?” Waverly asked. “And sit down,” he added sharply.

“My apologies. I didn’t realize,” Illya said, and took his seat, looking sheepish. “I can tell you who sent this. It’s from a KGB officer named Mikhail Grigoryevich Danilov.” 

Napoleon said, “A KGB pen-pal? What the -” and glanced at Waverly, who put his pipe down and turned an expressionless face toward Illya. 

“How do you know it’s from this Danilov?” Napoleon asked.

“It’s a pre-arranged signal between us.” 

“All of it, Mr. Kuryakin. At once.” Waverly strode to the windows and fixed his eyes on the river.

“Mikhail Grigoryevich Danilov was my childhood schoolmate. We met at a boarding school for orphans when I was six years old.” 

Napoleon cleared his throat and withdrew his communicator from his pocket. “Intelligence, please,” and requested information on the man. 

“You will find that he’s a company grade officer, a Junior Lieutenant,” Illya said to him. “He was a disappointment to his teachers. He didn’t accomplish what they expected of him. I wonder if he would have developed his talents if he had been sent to the naval school with me. Anyway, there’s not much on him.”

Capping his pen, Napoleon pointed a finger at Illya and said, “You’re not an orphan.” 

Illya shrugged and continued. “We were at the school until we were nearly fourteen, when I was sent to the Nakhimov Naval School at Leningrad, and Misha to the Krasnodar Suvorov Military School in Maikop. Before we went our separate ways, we created this signal.” 

Napoleon prodded, “So what does it mean? What does he want?”

“What the signal was intended for: a rescue.” 

Napoleon said, “A defection - is that what you’re saying?”

Illya nodded. Napoleon looked at him “Do you think we can trust him?”

“I don’t know,” said Illya. “Once I would have trusted him with my life. But now? Who knows.”

“Then it could be a trap.”

“Or he could really need help. Dissent has been growing, since the Berlin Wall…” 

Napoleon said, “I assume you have a pre-arranged meeting place.”

Illya replied, “In Moscow.”

Imperceptibly, Waverly stiffened.

“Moscow.” Napoleon threw his hands in the air. “Khrushchev’s back yard. They know you over there.” 

“It goes without saying I would use a disguise.”

“How would he know you’re there? You can’t just set up a tent and wait for him to show up.” 

“I don’t know, Napoleon. He managed to contact me. What if it’s legitimate?”

Waverly, thoughtfully, spoke at last. “Perhaps we should play along and find out.”

Napoleon rubbed his forehead. “With all due respect, sir, isn’t this something for the State Department to -”

“No!” Illya spoke sharply. “The State Department is riddled with Soviet informants, just as theirs is with ours. “ 

“Or the CIA,” said Napoleon. 

“He will only come to me,” Illya said. 

The door to Waverly’s office hissed open and his secretary entered, bearing a file folder, which she carried to Waverly. He glanced at the contents, and moved back to the conference table, passing the folder to Napoleon. “Mikhail Grigoryevich Danilov,” read Napoleon, and looked at Illya. “Junior Lieutenant, KGB.” 

“And yet he worked out a way to get this message to you,” said Waverly. He went to Illya and plucked Danilov’s message from the table. He stood for a moment, thinking, tapping his pipe absentmindedly in the palm of his hand. 

He’s going to go for it, Napoleon thought. When the pipe hits the palm, he’s thinking who to call.

Returning to his console, lifting the telephone, Waverly nodded to Napoleon. “Mr. Solo, get cover IDs and travel kits for yourself and Mr. Kuryakin." He jabbed the receiver in Illya’s direction before he could launch a protest. “No, Mr. Kuryakin, you’re not going alone. If your man Danilov doesn’t care for it, then let him stay in the Soviet Union.” 

With that, he turned his attention to the telephone, and said, “Get me Foy Kohler.” The US ambassador to Moscow. 

Napoleon interjected, “What about the leaks in the State Department?”

Mr. Waverly smiled without humor. “I’ll tell him you’re coming in under cover, and to meet you at the airport with a car. He doesn’t need to know the reason. He knows to keep his mouth shut when I call him. If this leaks, I’ll have him fired.” Abruptly, his attention went to the telephone. 

“Ambassador. Yes. How are you?” He half-turned and waved off his agents, dismissing them. 

After he finished the call, Waverly picked up Danilov’s message. He thought for a few moments, and then picked up the phone again.

***

  
The flight afforded them time to read, sleep, and plan. Dinner came, and while they ate, Napoleon asked tentatively, “So, Illya, how is it you came to live in an orphanage?” 

“I told Mr. Waverly everything while you were finalizing our papers. I’m sure you’ve got the transcript with you, and you’ve already read it.” Illya speared a green broccoli floret and sniffed it. 

“I did. But I’d really like you to just tell it to me yourself.” 

Illya sighed. “Napoleon…” He put his fork down. 

“We lived outside Kiev, on a farm: my grandfather, my grandmother, my parents, me, my sister. When I was six, my family was invited to turn the land over to the state, and move to a labor camp to the north, to participate in the glorious production of clothing for the military. I didn’t know this at the time, of course. I only found it out later, when I was out of the naval academy. 

“One morning, I awoke to the sound of my mother arguing with my father at the kitchen table. ‘He is too young,’ my mother was crying, and I realized they were talking about me, so I got out of bed and hid behind the doorway to hear better, and to my surprise, I saw a small suitcase standing next to the door, along with my coat and boots. My father saw me. He got up and told me to get dressed. I asked him why my mother was crying. I didn’t dare ask about the suitcase and my coat. So I got dressed and came back out to the kitchen and cried because she was crying. 

“A knock came at the door. My father opened the door, and there was the man who would be my headmaster at the Zemlyanoy Gorod Boarding School for orphans: Dzherom Petrovich Volanka. 

“The man looked at me and nodded, and my father gave him a roll of banknotes tied up with a string. The man turned without a word to me and went outside. My mother was saying things, unintelligible, desperate things, and tried to stop my father from putting my coat over my shoulders. She pulled at his arms as he helped me put my boots on. He pushed my mother away, and he told me I was to go with this very important man, to Moscow, to school. He stood and opened the door, and my mother threw herself at me, saying things I could not understand. To this day I can feel my father’s hands as he pulled me away from her. I clutched at her, but I couldn’t reach her. 

“I know this sounds cruel. But it was not intended to be. My father was sending me away in order to save me. It was a common enough occurrence. I would be clothed, and fed, and educated. I would not live the life they knew was coming. Volanka must have made himself a small fortune, turning the children of the Ukraine into orphans of the state.”

“I know about your Naval School education,” Napoleon said. “I never knew about your time at the boarding school, though.”

“Those were difficult years. I had no idea what was happening in Europe, but I understood enough to know that my parents were frightened, and that I was being sent away in order to be saved. I was young, and I had nowhere to go. The alternative was to run away. I tried it once, and ran away to Kiev, and found out my life in Moscow was not so bad.” 

“Moscow is what, 500 miles from Kiev?”

"Just about. I was too young to know what I was getting into.” 

Napoleon sat up straighter. He’d slumped comfortably, listening to Illya’s tale, but now his interest was piqued. “What happened, when you ran away?”

“Oh. It was a nightmare.” It still was.

“You couldn’t possibly have made it to Kiev.”

“It was in the spring of 1941. I hid on a troop train.” Illya shook his head. “And back again. I had no idea of how far away it was. I was old enough to understand the German Army was advancing. I remember thinking I would walk from the city to my family’s farm, and someone would tell me where to find them. I was beside myself, thinking they were going to be killed by Hitler.”

“You actually made it to Kiev.” Napoleon struggled to keep the incredulity from his voice.

“I was small. It was easy enough to hide among the crates and equipment. Mostly, I slept. Well, I cried myself to sleep. I was afraid, but I needed to find my family. That’s what I remember. That and the chaos of Kiev. I was so frightened, I stayed on the train. I knew the locomotive would be disconnected from the front and a different one put on the other end, so it could return on the same track to Moscow. Misha and I watched the trains all the time, and I would tell him what I would do to get to Kiev. He thought it was a good plan.”

“You were a brave boy, to do that.”

“Not at all. I didn’t understand. I had no idea.”

“Well, I have to say, it explains a lot about your ability to get in and out of places. You started young.” Napoleon grinned at Illya.

“When I got back to school, I was nearly dead. Volanka was so shocked, he didn’t even beat me. I remember scrubbing a lot of floors that spring. Misha cried when he saw me, and he never cried, not even when we had to get rid of Lenin.” 

“Oh, come on, Illya, the Kiev story is tall tale enough. But Lenin died before you were born.”

“Lenin was our pet cat. Misha spotted him hanging around the bushes in the back door of our dormitory. Misha tried coaxing the cat to come, but it wouldn’t. Then it came to me one day. Misha said it was because we were so much alike, the cat and me. No one else knew about him besides Misha and me. No one else would have been clever enough to hide him from Volanka,” said Illya. 

“Where did you keep him?”

“In a trunk under our beds.”

“My God, Illya, that’s cruel.”

“We took good care of him, and he liked it. Or he would have left. You know cats.”

“Not really…”

“We had him for only a few months, but it seemed like a long time. We did it because it was the last rebellious thing we could do together. We were bound for new schools.”

“What happened to the cat?” Napoleon asked.

Napoleon felt his friend stiffen slightly beside him, and he turned to look at Illya, who’d gone quiet. Illya said, tonelessly, “Three days before I had to leave for Leningrad, I took him to the foot of Lenin’s Tomb. I’d tied a tag around his neck with his name and a little note, asking that someone take care of him. I put some meat I’d saved from dinner on the pavement, and he went for it. I walked away.” 

Napoleon looked at Illya, imagining him as a thirteen year old boy, setting his pet cat loose in Red Square. “Lots of people there. Someone probably took him in.”

Illya nodded. “I sent him to survive on his own, in order that he could survive at all. It seemed like a good move, all things considered.”

“Hmm. That’s what your father did, with you.”

Illya grimaced. “I had Misha and Volanka, and a warm bed, and food. Lenin probably was adopted for dinner by the wild dogs that ran in the streets at night.” 

They were quiet for a while. Napoleon watched the view from the window. He could see the familiar lights of the main roads of Moscow below. Circling the city, in concentric rings, they burned bright in the dark of the early morning hour. He said, “I always liked the layout of this city.”

“These circles are built upon old battlement walls, built hundreds of years ago. The Kremlin, at the center, was walled in, and as the city grew, each layer was walled in, in turn,” said Illya.

“To keep people out.” 

Illya snorted. “More like, keep people in,” he said. 

“Would you ever try to …?”

“Defect? No. I am Soviet, with the blood of a Russian, who is happiest when there is something to complain about. Someday, maybe I’ll find a bit of land outside of Kiev.”

“I think the lights of Moscow have made you nostalgic, Illya. I really can’t picture you on a farm.”

Illya chuckled. “I was thinking of a quiet spot by a little water, to read, and walk, and think in my old age.”

“And invent miniature explosive devices.” Now they both laughed.

“There’s always that,” Illya said. “Thank you, Napoleon. These aren’t things I speak of, ever.”

“Except with Mr. Waverly.”

“I meant voluntarily.” Illya laughed again, and Napoleon was glad to be away from the somber discussion. 

The flaps on the plane rumbled. Napoleon instinctively checked his watch. “Four a.m. It’s only eight o’clock at night in New York. No wonder I’m wide awake.”

“That’s good,” said Illya. “We’re going to be busy. If he’s there, we’ll be back in the air in less than two hours.”

“What if he’s not there?”

“Then the dogs had him for dinner.”

“Breakfast…”

***

  
 **Moscow – October 2, 1964**

Ambassador Foy Kohler was waiting for them when they exited the plane at Vnukovo Airport. He gave Napoleon a brusque handshake and said, “This way,” leading them to a blue Volga parked several hundred feet distant. He fished a set of car keys from his pocket. “When you’re ready to return to New York, call - call your people. They’ll let us know you’re coming. The plane will be waiting for you, for as long as it takes.” Kohler handed the keys to Napoleon. He turned away, ignoring Napoleon’s “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador”, and strode quickly across the tarmac, disappearing inside the building. 

“I drive,” said Illya, holding out his hand. 

Napoleon tossed him the keys. “When in Moscow,” he said, and got in the passenger door. 

They took the big road from the airport to the MKAD, the road encircling Moscow, and then cut inward toward the city center. Illya took a series of turns onto increasingly smaller streets, and then slowed the car to a crawl in front of an aged stone building complex which took up the entire block. He continued around the corner and cut the engine. “In there,” he said, gesturing to a narrow opening between the walls of two massive buildings. They eased out of the car. The street was deserted and silent, the night still black. Napoleon caught up to Illya, who’d already moved into the gap. 

“What is this place?” whispered Napoleon.

“My childhood school,” said Illya. “Zemlyanoy Gorod Boarding School.” Together they made their way to the end of the opening, to the backside of the buildings. Illya led them across an open space to another building, and they crept along its backside until they came to a narrow door nearly hidden by overgrown cedar bushes. “We used to sneak in and out of here,” Illya said quietly, running his hands along the door. “This was our dormitory. We agreed to meet here,” and jiggled at the black doorknob. Napoleon glanced around uneasily. The courtyard between the square block of buildings was secluded, but they were exposed. Illya caught his eye. “If he’s coming, he will be here already.” 

As if on cue, footsteps crunched behind them, and they turned. A man in a long black overcoat emerged from the same opening they’d come from themselves. He held his hands out, palms up, in a gesture of peace. “Illya Kuryakin?” he called softly from across the yard. 

“Yes,” Illya replied, and the man stopped. 

The door behind them burst open, and a half-dozen black-clad soldiers poured through, abruptly seizing Illya and Napoleon from behind. They both whirled around, struggling against their captors, but they were outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. The man in the black overcoat came toward them.

“Is it him?” asked Napoleon in an undertone. 

“I don’t think so.” Illya bit his lip. “No.”

The man stopped three feet in front of them and, pulling a pistol from his coat, aimed it at them and said, “Welcome to Moscow.” 

“Do you welcome all of your guests with a gun?” Illya asked. 

"Only those who sneak around state property at night. Your papers, please."

“Inside, upper left,” Illya told him. The man reached in, felt briefly inside, and withdrew Illya’s passport and identification. He looked them over and said slowly, “Ah. A business machine sales representative.” Reaching again inside Illya’s coat, he pulled out Illya’s U.N.C.L.E. special, and looked from it to Illya, unsurprised. Illya sighed. The man turned to Napoleon. “I suppose you will be protecting your friend’s adding machines, too.” He nodded at a guard, who relieved Napoleon of his weapon and papers. “You are under arrest,” he said, and walked back out to the street. 

Someone yanked Illya’s arms behind his back and handcuffed them tightly at the wrists. Another set of manacles were fastened to his ankles. Beside him, the guards did the same to Napoleon. The U.N.C.L.E. agents were hauled out to the street and shoved into the back seat of a black Volga,its back doors open, engine running. A driver and the man with the gun sat next in front. Two guards pushed into the back seat from either side and slammed the doors shut. 

“There is a telephone number on our business permits,” said Illya. “You only need to call that number.” 

“Blindfold them,” ordered the man with the gun. Black hoods were jammed over the U.N.C.L.E. men’s heads, and the lights of Moscow disappeared. 

The car took a few short turns, and then picked up speed. Taking a direct route, Illya feared, to Lubyanka Square. He shifted in his seat, coughing. Behind his back, he moved his hands closer to Napoleon in hopes they could work out a signal system, but the guard next to him hit him on the head and wrenched his arms back into position. Illya felt Napoleon lurch forward at the commotion. There came a series of hard thumps, and Napoleon grunted and went limp. From the front of the car, the man with the gun said nothing, and Illya understood that resistance was useless. After a half-hour, the car decelerated and turned onto a new road. Another ten minutes passed, another turn, and the car bumped onto an uneven surface and stopped.

The car doors swung open and they were pulled out. The ankle manacles made the first steps awkward, and Illya made the most of the opportunity. He flung his body to the ground and, rolling away, managed to work the black hood loose enough to get a confused, incongruous sensation of cool grass and a glimpse of a flower garden. A boot kicked him in the head, and he fell into a black hole, where he dreamed he was lying on a bed of roses.

****

  
“Napoleon.” Nothing.

“Napoleon.” Illya repeated his partner’s name, urging a response from the lump on the floor that was his still-unconscious partner in a cell across the hallway. Six feet by six feet, three unpainted concrete walls, and the fourth lined with bars, the cells each held a metal shelf braced to the back wall and nothing else. A jolt to his stomach: why weren’t they isolated from each other? Didn’t it matter? Was the plan to take them away to a prison camp? Or worse – he stopped the thought. “Hey!” he shouted. “Guard!” 

A soft, gurgled “Ugggh” came from across the way. Illya hobbled to the bars of his cell. “Napoleon, wake up.” 

Someone must have been watching from a monitor, because a door clanged open and two guards came to Napoleon’s cell. They unlocked it and went to him, pulling him to his feet. One guard slapped at Napoleon’s bobbing face, bringing him out of his stupor. Napoleon’s head snapped up, and he bucked and slammed his body away from the guards, but he lost his balance and fell clumsily to the floor. The guards laughed and lifted him easily between them. From across the corridor, Illya shouted at them, first in English, then in Russian. “Look at our papers! Get your superior!” The guards ignored Illya’s protests and strong-armed Napoleon down the grey corridor.

An hour passed before the sound of shuffling shoes came from the hall’s depths. Illya moved to the bars of his cell, watching the guards toss Napoleon back into his cell. Immediately, they came for Illya. He decided to save his strength for better things, and hobbled out. 

He was taken to an interrogation room made of concrete: floors, ceiling, and walls, furnished with a sturdy metal table and two thick, metal chairs, all bolted to the floor. He was pushed into one of the chairs, his arms pulled over the back. A thick restraining strap was belted tightly around his midsection, drawing an involuntary cry of pain from Illya as his lower ribcage was bent inward. The guards left. The pain from his ribs made breathing excruciating. It was cold. He shivered. 

He was not aware that he had dozed off: the tall, thin man who stood at the metal table had come from nowhere. The suit he wore was of good cloth, well cut. Too well cut for a State Security officer assigned to interrogating captured foreign agents. 

The man laid a thin black folder on the table and examined it, page by page. Illya waited for the hard part to begin. The man closed the folder and examined Illya. Then he moved around the table and stood before Illya.

“So you couldn’t resist the impulse to help a friend in need. How selfless of you. What have you learned from this lesson, Comrade Kuryakin?”

The voice came from the past, an uncanny imitation of Headmaster Volanka. Illya stifled a surprised sound in his throat. His face is altered, he thought, and replied, “Not to get caught, Mikhail Grigoryevich.” 

As Illya uttered the name, Danilov smiled thinly, and in spite of his anger and pain, Illya returned it, faintly.

Misha’s smile flattened. “So, spy, you know me, after all this time.”

“I don’t pretend to know you. If you are the person I once knew, you would not have allowed those goons to beat my companion,” Illya replied.

“I plan to allow them to beat you next.”

“If your illiterate thugs had been able to read my papers, they would know I am no spy. I work for U.N.C.L.E. as a representative of the USSR. You must know this. It’s apparent you’ve lured us to use as a bargaining tool. There’s no need to hurt us.”

“You are living the life of a capitalist spy. You have been corrupted.”

Illya laughed sarcastically. “You wear the non-uniform of the elite, the most fraudulent corruption within the Soviet Intelligence machine. Your clothes cost more than a state worker earns in a year. What is your real rank, Comrade Junior Lieutenant?”

Danilov lifted his head. “To each according to his work.” 

“Pah. You are Volanka’s boy, all right. He preached that line to me, too.” 

Danilov’s eyes narrowed. “When Volanka sent me to military school, I didn’t want to go, but I obeyed him. With hard work, he said, I would be rewarded in kind. But he betrayed us.” 

“What are you talking about? He took care of us.” 

“He took care of  _you_! You flourished at navy school. At Maikop they beat us. They said it would make us stronger." 

“Volanka spent years grooming us for the Intelligence Service.” 

“Illya! He used those payoffs at our school to buy favors! He fed off our success at the Academy and Intelligence training - like a leech! Do you know he lied like a whore for Khrushchev and Molotov, against Beria! He -” 

Danilov halted, collecting himself. Gesturing at his clothing, he said, “I have earned every privilege, through my own hard work. My path is of my own making now. ”

“To end up here? In Lubyanka Square, growing roses outside your torture chambers?” Illya tried for calm, but his voice rang against the walls. “You lured me here to betray me and arrest me! Are you going to lie, and say I am a double agent? Is this how you pay for your fancy clothes from Khrushchev?” 

“Khrushchev?” Danilov barked a short laugh. “Khrushchev.” As if he’d just heard a good joke. A fleeting sneer passed across his face and he spoke patronizingly. “You think this is the Lubyanka? You think Moscow is the center of it all? My friend, you have been taken much deeper than you can imagine, past layers within layers. ” 

“What are you doing, Misha?” Illya’s voice was cautious, low. 

“Shuffling the cards, Illyusha. Remember when we were young, how our Headmaster shuffled us, two jacks in his deck? Now it is my turn.”

He went to the door and spoke to someone in the hall. A guard came in with a newspaper and a camera. The newspaper was propped in Illya’s lap, and the camera flashed as it took his photograph. They unstrapped him and returned him to his cell. 

Napoleon was awake, sitting on his cot.

“Misha.” Illya said the name with venom. “He’s behind it all.”

“How do you know?” Napoleon spoke quietly. 

“I just saw him. Who interrogated you?”

“No one. They strapped me in a chair and took my picture. I sat there awhile, and then they brought me back here.” He wiggled his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Did they take your picture?” 

“Yes.” 

“I wonder how many Soviet spies Misha can buy back with us?” 

Bait, Illya thought bitterly. That’s all we were. 

***

  
The next day, the cell doors were opened. They were led up a flight of stairs and out of their prison: a grand dacha from out of the past, set on a tree-filled plot of countryside. Illya looked around. Much of the area behind the house where they stood was filled with rose bushes, their green foliage shining in the sunlight. The land fell away in swaths of autumn gold and bronze. Their blue Volga was parked in the drive. Danilov stood next to the car along with the man who’d led their capture, and the driver. 

“My people will drive you to Vnukovo,” said Danilov, and left them standing there, among the roses.

****

  
 **New York – October 3, 1964**

A group of men emerged from the back door of the terminal and watched the two young men descend the plane’s stairway. All of the men in the group were armed guards in black uniforms. The final man, in his early sixties, was dressed in grey. His long grey overcoat matched his hair, and the clouds, and the plane. The day was cold and damp, and the man pressed a fist into his lower back to relieve a chronic ache. 

Now the two men were coming near, and the group of men moved toward the plane. As the two men passed them, the grey-haired man paused to peer at the blond-haired man. The blond man glanced at him, then, as recognition dawned, stopped walking. The grey-haired man stood straight, his face grim. He said to the blond man, “The changing of the guard,” and nodded, then nodded again. Turning back to the plane, he plodded on, mindless of the armed guards, and grasping the stair rail firmly, took the first stair, then another, with as much dignity as his aching back would allow, until he reached the top and ducked into the plane. 

Before Illya’s astonished face, the 707’s door swung shut. The staircase was wheeled away. The plane’s engines throttled to a deafening roar, and the plane rolled down the runway, gaining speed, until with a small lurch, it lifted into the air. Five seconds later, it disappeared into the eastern grey cloudbank on its way to Moscow.

***

  
The next day, Alexander Waverly had a visitor. 

John McCone, Director of Central Intelligence, was a happy man. Smiling, he said, “How do you do it, Alex? You must have the devil’s own luck. I don’t know how two experienced U.N.C.L.E. agents managed to blunder into a trap like that, but I refuse to believe it was sheer coincidence that during this very mission, Kuryakin  _just happened_  to recognize one of the most powerful and elusive figures in the KGB. Have you got any idea how long we’ve been trying to unveil the Fifth Man, Alex? No, don’t act innocent. Of course you know. It’s too bad we lost Volanka over it. He’s been an invaluable asset for a long time. But I’d have handed over any number of double agents to get at Danilov’s identity. Would you please wipe that satisfied grin off your ugly mug and tell me, how in the hell did you know it was the Fifth Man behind that message?”

Waverly drew on his pipe, his eyes twinkling. 

“The truth? Volanka told me. Oh, not in so many words. To give credit, it was your people who intercepted that recent message to him warning that his ‘old pupil’ appeared to be siding with Brezhnev. Volanka was quite agitated about it. When Mr. Kuryakin reminded me he had been a pupil at the Zemlyanoy Gorod Boarding School, I put two and two together.” 

McCone failed to conceal the surprised look on his face, and Waverly’s smile took a wickedly gleeful turn. 

“It was still a massive risk to send Kuryakin and Solo. There was no guarantee Danilov would take the bait,” McCone said, peevishly. 

“Why wouldn’t he?” countered Waverly. “He needed to reel in the Khrushchev loyalists. Having them sent back in return for two U.N.C.L.E. agents lent credence to his claim that they were working for the Americans. He could eliminate the old guard in one fell swoop.” 

"How much do your men know about this?”

"They've been debriefed," said Waverly, drily. "They know all they need to know." 

He flipped a switch on his intercom. “Send them in, Miss McNabb.” 

The door to his office opened, and Napoleon and Illya entered. McCone stood, and offered Napoleon his hand. “Mr. Solo. I trust you weren’t injured too badly.”

Napoleon touched a tentative hand to the bandage on his forehead, and smiled. “I’ll be fine, Director. It’s nothing a few days' rest won’t cure.”

Ignoring Waverly’s harrumph, McCone turned his attention to Illya. “And how are you, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I am fine, thank you, Sir,” Illya assured him.

McCone headed to the door. “Alex, thank you. We won’t forget this.” 

As the door closed, Illya said, “He’d better not forget it. We’ve already been taking guff about our humiliating ‘capture’".

“Your bruised ego is the least of my concerns, Mr. Kuryakin. Besides, a little humility is good for the soul.”

***

  
 **New York - October 15, 1964**

They’d gotten the news of Nikita Khrushchev’s removal from Mr. Waverly yesterday, who’d gotten it from Kohler – a full day before the rest of the world heard about it. 

 _“Nikita Khrushchev has unexpectedly stepped down as leader of the Soviet Union.  
The official Soviet news agency, Tass, announced that a plenary meeting of the Communist Party Central Committee had accepted Mr. Khrushchev's request to depart "in view of his advanced age and the deterioration of his health". Mr. Khrushchev, who is 70, took over as First Secretary of the Central Committee soon after Stalin's death. He has held the role of both party leader and prime minister since 1958. These posts will now be divided with 57-year-old Leonid Brezhnev heading the Soviet Communist Party, while 60-year-old Alexei Kosygin, will take the post of prime minister. The news has come as a shock to Soviet diplomats in London who were unaware that their leader might be unwell.” _

The BBC announcer’s voice droned maddeningly on. 

Napoleon got up and turned the radio off. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said to Illya.

“No. I have it memorized, I’ve heard it so often,” Illya replied. “And I’ve seen this photo one time too many.” He flipped it across the desk. A group of five men, caught unaware, in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral. 

“Brezhnev, Semichastny, Shelepin, Kosygin,” said Napoleon, naming each man in the group. “And Danilov.” He pushed the photo away. “Kohler’s got some good eyes over there.”

Illya nodded. “"The changing of the guard." When Volanka said that, I thought he was making a commentary on the trade-off, us for him. But he knew what was coming.” 

“A pre-emptive strike. I wonder how many others were pulled back to Moscow along with him.”

“Plenty, I’m sure. Misha was sweeping up the old networks - a purge of the old party loyalties, and used it to wreak his revenge on Volanka.” Illya remembered Volanka’s grey face, the flat acceptance in his eyes, as he turned to climb up the stairs of the Moscow-bound aircraft. He wondered, would Volanka stand among the roses in Misha’s garden? Would he be given a moment to take in their fragrance, before the shot rang out? 

***

  
 **New York - February, 1965**

Another late night, putting the final touches on a mission report, a mission which had begun as a favor to Mr. Waverly’s cousin Lester Baldwin, but had turned deadly, as Baldwin was killed by his own guard dogs. The image of the Doberman pinchers, licking their chops - he’d had his fill of dogs. 

Report finished, he stood, stretched. Time for a break, he decided, and headed for the commissary. “Coffee, large, and a tuna sandwich, to go,” he requested, declining the sour pickle that came on the side. Returning with it to his office, he scraped the sandwich filling from the bread onto the wax paper. He folded the wax paper over the pungent mound, careful not to squeeze it, and dropped it in the left side-pocket of his jacket. The bread he wrapped in scrap paper and dropped it into the other pocket. He picked up the coffee, turned off the lights, and made his way through the quiet night corridors, taking the elevator down and out to the parking garage. 

In the garage, he tossed the bread in the trash dumpster. He should have asked for just the tuna, or eaten the bread himself instead of wasting it. On the other hand, he couldn’t count how many times he’d thrown cash on the restaurant table, leaving behind a half-eaten meal, summoned by the pen. 

And so many meals eaten at one’s desk, late-night leftovers shoved off to the side, tossed in the wastebasket. It attracted mice. Do something, Mr. Waverly ordered the janitors. The janitors set mouse traps. Illya hated the snap of the traps in the dead of the night. The staff hated the mice corpses and demanded that Section Eight invent a better mouse-trap. Eventually, someone brought in a cat. A fine mouser whose efficiency earned Mr. Waverly’s grudging approval. That was, until last week, when Napoleon tripped over the cat. Mr. Waverly issued a mandate: traps were back in, and the cat was out. Someone, he dictated, had better remove the cat. Or else. 

The early spring weather was trapped within the concrete parking structure, and Illya shivered from the cold. The access door buzzed, and he pushed inside, entering the welcome warmth of the motor pool. The anteroom, with its wall rack of brass and silver keys, was empty, but Illya could hear voices from the inner room, which housed the video monitors. He glanced around the room, and then rounded the log desk, squatting to peer into the small space between the desk and the wrapped heating pipes which ran from floor to ceiling. 

“There you are,” he said softly. 

“Mrrrow,” came the reply. 

Taking the tuna packet from his packet, he unfolded it and pushed it to the black shape pressed against the warm pipe. He straightened and sat in the squeaky grey chair at the desk, sipping his coffee, listening to the tiny nibbling noises coming from the corner. He liked cats. He was glad the motor pool chief did, too. After a bit, he scratched his fingers against the fabric of the leg of his pants. In a moment, the nibbling ceased. In another moment, Illya’s fingers were nipped, but not too hard, and he bent down and scratched the cat, not too hard, behind the ears.

“How ya doin’, Illya?” The motor pool chief.

Without looking up, Illya replied, “I’m fine, Charlie, and you?”

“Good enough. Hey, he’s settled in pretty good, huh?”

“Yes, he has. Thanks again.”

“No problem. I like cats. Maybe you should get a pal for him. You could name it McCartney," said Charlie. He reached down and patted the cat. “Hiya Lennon, how ya - what’s so funny?" 

Illya, smiling, did not bother to respond. Charlie shrugged and continued his trip out to the garage. Illya pressed his hand gently against the top of the cat’s head, remembering this cat’s namesake. Lenin pushed back, purring a contented rumble.

 _He will only come to me._  Illya remembered his words to Mr. Waverly and Napoleon. And Misha in turn, knew I would come to him. He’d banked on it. He finished his coffee and hurled the cup at the wastebasket. The cat zipped away.

 _You have to be good to a cat, or the cat will go away._  His voice came to him from the past. 

And Misha’s voice answered:  _Sometimes the cat goes away anyway._

As Illya returned to his office, he wondered, would Lenin be there the next time he came to visit? After all, sometimes a cat will go away in spite of its friends, and take care of itself, alone. 

 **The End**

 


End file.
